6
236 Words
6
I’d a holdall on my shoulder, wasn’t entirely sure what to pack for prison. Put in two white shirts; they’d cover most contingencies. A pair of Farah slacks with that knife crease, you could slice bread with it. Two books, of course, to cover both legs of the trip. I’d been into Charlie Byrne’s on Monday. A ton of new books had arrived, and I wished I had the time to go through them. Vinny was engrossed in a book, then he looked up, the slow grin beginning, said,
“Jack, we thought you’d given up reading.”
“Never happen.”
“Help you with anything?”
I glanced round, no one near, and asked,
“I’m going to see a guy in prison; I thought I’d bring him some books. Any ideas?”
He shifted his glasses, a sure indication of serious consideration, said,
“I’d stay away from prison accounts. I mean, the guy is doing time. How much is he going to want to read about it?”
As if he read my mind. God forgive me, I’d been seriously contemplating exactly that line of country. He reached behind him, to what I knew to be his private stash, pulled out one.
“Here.”
Spike Milligan’s Puckoon. I said,
“This is your own copy: looks well handled and well cared for.”
“Jack, what’s the worst that can happen, they’ll nick it? They’re already serving the sentence.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“I’ll put it on your account.”
“Thanks, Vinny, you’ll be rewarded.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
- Writer
